


How to Stop Time

by Anonymous



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, author has ordered a ride to church, idk but with his pseudoscience thing he gives off that conspiracist vibe, novak is a conspiracist in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The boy laying out napkins is just a boy.Roger keeps trying to repeat that to himself, but his fingers won’t stop shaking. He can’t look away. His eyes devour every single inch of Rafa Nadal. Not his Rafa. Nothis Rafa.
Relationships: Andy Murray/Rafael Nadal, Charlene Federer & Rafael Nadal, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Mirka Federer/Roger Federer, Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 11
Kudos: 109
Collections: anonymous





	How to Stop Time

**Author's Note:**

> based on age of adaline where rafa was born in 1920s and looks forever 21 (heh). minor rafa and charlene because i needed rafa and roger to meet, nothing happens between them though. endgame fedal, of course.
> 
> title based from matt haig's _how to stop time_ , a book with similar themes to age of adaline.
> 
> i took a lot of creative liberties and handwavey magic in this one, let's just all roll with it
> 
> unbeta'd, mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> this is a work of fiction and none of this is real.

Charlene doesn’t bring guys home, but Rafa–

Well, Charlene’s not a fool.

She’d scoffed at ideas of love at first sight, but Rafa is _radiant_. He’s perfect and Charlene’s determined not to mess it up.

It’s why she’s pulling up now, driving carefully over snow and ice to park next to his dad’s glistening Mercedes ( _show off_ , Charlene thinks fondly). It’s why she’s bringing Rafa to meet her dad even though they’ve only been dating two months. Even though Charlene doesn’t bring guys home and–

“Charlene?” Comes the soft voice on her side, and Charlene jerks out of her nervousness to see Rafa looking at her from the passenger’s seat– eyebrows furrowed together with concern. “Are you alright?”

“I…” sometimes Charlene thinks that Rafa isn’t even real. Just this perfect thing that’s been created, an angel God forgot to scoop back up into heaven, some sort of fairy creature without wings–

“We don’t have to do this,” Rafa whispers, reaching over to lay his hand over Charlene’s where it grips the wheel. “I can meet your dad anytime, really, don’t force yourself.” Rafa’s voice is soft, his eyes sparkle with earnestness.

“No.” Charlene mutters, lifting Rafa’s hand to kiss his fingers. “You’re gonna meet him. He’s going to talk to you for five seconds and then beg you to marry me.”

Rafa laughs heartily, cheeks flushed with delight, “we only met a few weeks ago–”

Charlene shuts off the engine and pushes open the door, “oh Raf, we have a connection.”

Rafa laughs again. It’s blistering outside, snow whips in every direction in the wind, and they both hurry towards the door.

Charlene jams her key in the lock, dimly hoping her dad is even home. Maybe she should have called first, but the thought of surprising her dad was so appealing–

The two of them trip over the threshold in their haste to escape the cold, and Charlene slams the door shut behind them, soaking in the warmth.

“If you’re an intruder, you should know I’m only exceptionally wealthy.” Comes a drawl, and Charlene grins, looking up to see her dad stroll around the corner into the hallway. At least he’s not wearing something embarrassing like a _Hi Hungry, I’m dad_ t–shirt. Instead, he’s in a plain black sweater, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Dad,” Charlene grins, wrapping her arm proudly over Rafa’s shoulder, “this is my boyfriend–”

“ _Rafa_.” Her dad whispers, and the coffee cup slips from his fingers.

Charlene’s bright, and she can feel things. Time, in that moment, feels different. She takes in her dad’s face– his eyes, they’re– struck. Charlene’s never seen them look like that before, and when Charlene turns to Rafa– Rafa who’s just looked up from where he was trying to free himself from the tangle of his knitted scarf– snowflakes still perfectly formed and glistening on his eyelashes– looks friendly, if bewildered.

Charlene’s bright enough to feel _something,_ but she doesn’t understand what it is.

The coffee cup hits the wooden floor but doesn’t break. The dark liquid sloshes over the side and the white ceramic rolls around noisily for a moment.

“Dad,” Charlene mutters, rushing over to hold her dad’s arm, scanning him for signs of injury or fatigue. “Are you okay?”

Her dad doesn’t look away from Rafa. Doesn’t tear away his gaze.

“Hey,” Charlene says, louder, before frowning. Her dad knew Rafa’s name. “You know each other?” She turns to his boyfriend.

Rafa’s cheeks are still a little red from the cold, his curls are messier than usual, and he’s as beautiful as always. His eyes, however, are just confused. He shakes his head.

“Dad?” Charlene says again, more worried this time.

“Rafa Parera,” her dad whispers, gaze still fixed.

Something happens then– to Rafa, this time– his breath catches, and his honey eyes go wide. He fumbles, speechless, equally struck, before stumbling out: “Uhm he’s my– Rafa Parera’s my dad.”

Charlene lets out a croak of disbelief. Puzzle pieces slot together. “Oh my god, this is just fate!” She exclaims, grinning. What were the chances? How small is the world? Soulmates are real. The universe and destiny...

“The likeness is–” her dad takes a step forward, stepping right over the coffee, one hand already reaching out to trace over Rafa’s cheek in a gesture that’s far too intimate, “–the likeness is– you must hear it all the time–” Charlene watches, stunned, as her dad traces his fingers across Rafa’s jaw like he’s done it a thousand times before.

There’s something fragile and tender in her dad’s voice that Charlene doesn’t understand.

And then she sees that Rafa’s crying. Tears slip down his cheeks onto herdad’s fingertips. “Rafa!” Charlene cries, hurrying over and cradling her boyfriend into her arms, out of her dad’s caress (what the hell is _happening_?) “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

“N–nothing.” Rafa hiccups, burying his face into Charlene’s neck. His nose is still cold and his hair smells like strawberries.

“The resemblance is– your dad– how is he–”

“ _Dad_.” Charlene hisses, but Rafa gives a shaky smile.

“He– he passed away a–a few years ago, Ro–Mr. Federer.”

Charlene watches; awed. Her dad doesn’t make a sound, but something passes over him. A loss, a grief, it nearly brings Charlene to tears.

She doesn't understand what’s happening. Her boyfriend is crying in her arms and her dad looks like a wound: decades old, has been ripped open. Something heavy hangs in the air. The smell of coffee is starting to get stronger.

“I’m gonna…” Charlene clears her throat, “I’m gonna show Rafa to my room, then– then maybe I’ll make us all something to eat. Will you be alright, dad?”

Her dad doesn’t look away from Rafa, who’s half hidden in Charlene’s embrace. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost.

“I’ll make banana granola with Nutella.” Charlene offers lightly, trying to break the tension.

Rafa giggles wetly and says “I love Nutella granola–” just as her dad, in perfect unison, says: “Rafa loved Nutella granola.”

Rafa shuts his mouth.

Charlene swallows hard. “Dad,” she mutters, because her dad is staring too hard now. “Dad, can you– I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes, okay? _Dad._ ”

“Sure,” her dad whispers, unmoving.

Rafa shuffles towards the stairs, head down. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Federer.”

Charlene frowns when her dad says nothing.

_______

The boy laying out napkins is just a boy.

Roger keeps trying to repeat that to himself, but his fingers won’t stop shaking. He can’t look away. His eyes devour every single inch of Rafa Nadal. Not his Rafa. Not _his Rafa_.

But _Rafa_.

It’s like he’s gone back twenty-nine years, like he’s twenty-one again, like he’s looking at the only person who ever really knew him.

When Mirka had found him, she’d found him broken. Roger had loved Mirka, he did, and he had grieved when she passed away, but it was a candle to the blaze that losing Rafa was.

His Rafa, which this Rafa can’t be…

But Roger can’t look away. From those warm, honey eyes. From the smattering of freckles across delicate cheekbones, from the plush lips and the thick, tousled curls. He can’t help but watch as Rafa flits about the table, arranges the knives and forks for three, as he smoothes down his jeans before he sits down in a gesture that’s really...odd.

Endearing, but odd.

It’s something Roger’s dad used to do. Pinch his slacks and tug them up just a little to avoid creases. Roger hasn’t seen it done in decades. Unless you count the old black and white movies he throws on on a Saturday evening.

“Dad,” Charlene murmurs, tugging the baking sheet out of the oven and placing it on the counter. “You’re staring. Still.”

Roger turns his head but not his gaze. Rafa’s smoothing out the table cloth when his nose twitches, and those eyes are whirling over to them.

“Oh, that smells amazing!”

Roger’s heart is pounding. His palms are damp and his throat is tight.

Charlene smiles brightly. “Thanks, Raf, wait till you taste it. You know I’m not one to brag, but–”

“You brag all the time,” Rafa teases, and Roger snaps out of it.

That’s his daughter and the boy he’s brought home. This Rafa is not _his_ Rafa, no matter the resemblance. Roger has to get over these– these feelings because it’s fucking messed up. He just has to get to know Rafa Nadal and see all the ways he’s not Rafa Parera, and then Roger can keep his head together. “So, Rafa,” he cuts in, picking up their plates, now heavy with food, and carrying them over to the table. Charlene follows with wine. “What do you do for a living?”

Rafa blinks, before smiling shyly. He doesn’t maintain eye contact for very long. “Oh, well, Mr. Federer, I’m a– well, I work in a coffee shop.”

Relief, just a little, seeps into Roger’s shoulders. This isn’t his Rafa. His Rafa had been something else. He’d dreamt of being a tennis player too, of all things. “Well,” he begins kindly, “I’m sure that’s–”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Raf,” Charlene defends, lavishly pouring mushroom pepper gravy over her rösti. “He’s super athletic, dad, seriously, you should hear him talk about sports– he could give you a run for your money.”

“No, I–” Rafa hurries to interject, eyes wide, “–I’m really not–”

“You are.” Charlene says fondly. “He helps coach the university’s tennis team! Doesn’t brag or anything. I wouldn't even have known if I hadn’t seen him in one of their practices. He’s not even getting paid, but,” Charlene smiles, reaching over to pinch Rafa’s cheek, “he doesn’t care about money, do you?”

Roger’s throat is tight again.

“You believe that, Raf?” He croaks, and those eyes meet his– again, only for a moment– before darting away. “Your dad used to say that too.”

“Oh yeah,” Charlene nods cluelessly, mouth full, “how’d you even know his dad?”

_________

_It was 2004. He was in a deserted Blockbuster at three in the morning._

_He’d been morosely scanning for a movie, anything to stop thinking about his loss, when he’d turned the aisle to see the same boy who kicked his ass plonked down in the middle of a stack of The Phantom of The Opera and Star Wars. He was wearing a thin sweater and his tennis shoes and glitter was dusted across his sharp cheekbones._

_The boy had looked up, had grinned, a little tipsy and the glitter sparkled in the light. “_ Empire Strikes Back _, no?” He’d said, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes on the coil of Roger’s shoulders and the bulge of muscle through the tight leather jacket._

_Roger had grinned, nudging The Phantom with the toe of his shoe. “Drinking and watching Star Wars? Sounds like my kind of night.”_

_They were making out in the backseat of Roger’s rented chevy ten minutes later._

__________

“We were friends.” Roger says, a half–truth, eyes flickering over Rafa’s face. The boy eats his food slowly. Focused on the food. “Did your dad ever….did he ever mention me? We were– I thought we were…” he’d thought a lot of things, though. When he’d bought that ring he’d thought things. When he’d rolled over to see an empty bed.

His heart is pounding. He wants to scream.

“Mr. Federer,” Rafa whispers, voice a little choked, and Roger looks up to see that Rafa’s looking at him. Those same eyes, beautiful and transcendent. How are eyes like that passed down? Myla and Charlene don’t look much like Roger, but Rafa is the spitting image of his dad. “I don’t know if– my dad used to talk about someone, he never said their name, but he said that he only ever regrets one thing and that was walking out on a friend. I don’t– I don’t know if it was you, but he never got over it. He said that the two of them were gonna go play Wimbledon together and–”

Roger lets out a desperate gasp for air. Charlene reaches over, alarmed, but Roger shakes him off. He stares, transfixed, drinking in oxygen. “That’s me, that’s _me_.”

Rafa’s eyes are swimming again. “Mr. Federer, I’m so– Charlene, maybe I should go–”

“Dad,” Charlene is there, suddenly, hugging him, and Roger feels a little stronger. “Dad, I didn’t realise that– that there was so much history there. You never talked about your life before, I didn’t…” he pulls back, a daughter’s love and concern on her face, “maybe Raf and I should go? I’ll come back up myself and visit you in a week, or– or maybe I could call Myla or Tante and–”

“No.” Roger chokes out, because the thought of Rafa leaving is worse than remembering all he’s lost.

His Rafa, _his_ Rafa regret leaving him. Does it help to know that? His Rafa is gone, is dead, but cared about him enough to tell his son that he had one regret in life– something he never got over– leaving Roger stayed with him– haunted him– the way it haunts Roger–

“I loved him so much.” He sobs, chest heaving, and tears start to pour. His daughter holds him tight and Roger can dimly hear Rafa flee the room, but he can’t do anything but cry and cry and cry.

________

_“I think Andre is going to lose soon.” Roger says around a yawn, stealing a piece of bacon out of the pan. He hisses as it burns his finger tips, and pops it into his mouth._

_“Hey,” Rafa warns, brandishing his spatula. “Not yet ready.”_

_Roger pouts, holding out his fingers and talking around bacon. “I burnt myself.”_

_Rafa grins, pecking Roger’s fingertips. “That’s because you’re an idiot who would rather talk about tennis matches and steal bacon than get up early to help me make us a delicious breakfast.”_

_“It is early, Raf,” Roger grins, wrapping his arms around Rafa’s waist and nosing at his neck. “It’s seven in the morning, baby, what do you want from me?”_

_Rafa wiggles his hips and his eyebrows. “Lots of things. I want you to win. I want Real Madrid to always win. I want you to carry me back to bed and have your way with me.”_

_Roger narrows his eyes. “But then the bacon would burn.”_

_Rafa flicks him._

_Roger reaches over, flipping off the stove._

_“Hey– ah! Roger!”_

_Roger grins, hoisting Rafa over his shoulder and dancing back towards the bedroom. “Your wish is my command, hot stuff.”_

________

In the morning, his eyes are crusty, but he feels better.

He has a long, hot shower, and he doesn’t fight the memories. They come to him easily, wash over him like the hot melt of his high pressure shower head. He remembers Rafa’s teasing and their mundane arguments.

_“Playing FIFA again?” Rafa would tease, flitting around the apartment in one of Roger’s FC Basel jerseys. “That’s cute.”_

_“Oh, yeah?” Roger would smirk, prodding one of Rafa’s controllers. “You think you can win against me? That’s cute.”_

Rafa always wore Roger’s jerseys, but Roger never wore Rafa’s. Rafa had said he doesn’t keep much with him, and Roger never met his parents.

Rafa had always been such a mystery. An honest, beautiful, mystery.

_“I get it, you know,” Roger whispers, dragging his fingertips across Rafa’s skin, lit by the moonlight that drenches Rafa’s tiny apartment. “Parents they can– suck.”_

_Rafa kisses the underside of his jaw tenderly but doesn’t say a word._

The jeweller had smiled and accepted the money. He’d said: “she’ll love it, Sir.”

“He will.” Roger had drawled, leaving behind shock and awe, his speciality.

He’d believed it.

Maybe Rafa would have loved it. Maybe if Roger had just– had just proposed a day earlier, had just done something differently–

His entire life would have been different then.

He wouldn’t have Myla or Charlene

And he loves Myla and Charlene with his whole heart.

When he heads downstairs, he’s determined to be normal today. It’s a weird, freakish connection that Charlene’s newest beau is the son of the man that Roger would have given everything for, but it’s not the end of the world.

He strolls into the kitchen and pauses, because Rafa’s whispering to himself and looking through the cupboards almost angrily.

It’s such an arresting sight, it takes him aback. So breathtaking that even though he should feel like a voyeur, Roger just feels swept away.

“Looking for something, Raf?” He quips, biting back a smile as Rafa jerks around.

“Oh! Morning, Mr. Federer, I was…” his voice drops away, he looks down. “I’m uh...I’m really sorry about–”

“Not your fault, kid.” He promises. “I obviously don’t deal with emotions in the best way and that’s nothing you have to be sorry for. Hell, I’m sorry. Not a great first impression, is it? Don’t let me ruin Charlene for you.”

Rafa smiles a little, but won’t meet his eyes. “Charlene’s great.”

“Of course she is. Raised her myself.” He tries to coax Rafa into looking at him. “What were you looking for? Something to eat?”

“I um– I had a bit of a headache, that’s all. A hot chocolate normally– it was a long shot but–”

“I promise you I have every single type of chocolate in the world.” Roger smiles warmly, “One hot chocolate with almond milk and marshmallows coming up. Sit, sit. Did you not sleep well?”

Rafa slowly slides onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Roger pulls two mugs out of the cupboard. “No, I couldn’t...I couldn’t sleep.” He admits.

“I get that.” Roger sighs, “it was a long evening. If there’s anything I can do to make it more comfortable you let me know – extra blankets, pillows, you name it.”

“Everything’s perfect,” Rafa smiles down at his hands. “You’ve got a really lovely home.”

Roger smiles as he boils hot water. “Thanks, Raf, it does the job. So, how long have you known Charlene?”

Rafa shrugs, accepting the hot drink with a pleased _thank you_. “Seems like forever.”

Roger snorts, fixing himself his own black tea, sinking into the white noise of the water whirring. “I’d believe that. She has a way of getting under your skin and settling in. She gets that from me, believe it or not.”

Rafa smiles. “I have no doubts about that, Mr. Federer.”

“I can’t tell if that’s praise or criticism about my character.”

“I can’t tell if you would accept either one,” Rafa counters, sipping his drink with a pleased hum.

Roger bites back the bile in his throat, swallowing it down with too hot coffee. You sound just like him, Roger wants to say. Instead, he says: “So, tennis, huh?” He bites back the offer to let Rafa call him Roger. He doesn’t think he could bear to hear it. Not in the same tenor, the same lilt.

Rafa blushes into his hot chocolate. “It’s just a hobby, my dad was– he was the real tennis player.”

“Got that right,” Roger murmurs, “he was– when I knew him, we were– well, about the age you are now, and he was...brilliant. He’s promising too,” He snorts softly, “little brat, though. Kicked my ass and trampled on my ego most of the time. Smug little shit.”

Rafa’s smile is tighter. “Sounds like dad.”

Right. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Roger offers weakly, even though he knows saying it doesn’t help. “Is your mom…”

“She died when I was a baby.” Rafa murmurs, taking a deep sip. “It’s alright, really.”

“Well, how’d you and my Char meet, then? She comes stumbling into the coffee shop, an old barista style meet–cute kind of thing?” Roger can picture that. His daughter, wearing one of her oversized pullovers, ordering iced mocha with whipped cream and then looking down from the board to see Rafa by the till, all warm brown eyes and golden skin. “Oh god. She wasn’t too straightforward, was she?”

Rafa laughs. To Roger, it sounds like pure nostalgia. “She gave me her number when I asked for her name. I didn’t call her, though.”

Roger takes his mug to the breakfast bar and sits opposite him, curious. “Oh?” Charlene’s a beautiful kid–”

“But then she kept coming in every day, kept giving different responses when I asked what her name was for her order. Stuff like: R2D2 and Steffi Graf. I got so curious as to what she was actually called that I offered a trade. A date for a name. It was very Rumpelstiltskin.”

Roger grins, “well, she’s smitten with you. She’s never brought someone home for me to meet before. There must be something about you.”

Rafa blushes.

But there _is_ . It’s the same _something_ that Rafa Parera had.

Roger sees it more and more. He can’t help but remember and compare. When Rafa takes their mugs to the kitchen sink he actually washes them. He doesn’t rinse them and pop them into the dishwasher. He has a sharp nose, all the same freckles, and the same gorgeous curls of dark hair.

When Charlene gets up, still drowsy, she ambles into the kitchen and tugs Rafa into his side and hugs him tightly.

Roger tries not to let it bother him.

“You guys have breakfast already?” Charlene pouts morosely, prodding a plate with a little poached egg left.

“Yes, we did.” Rafa teases with a smile, “because you’d rather sleep than get up early.”

“It is early, Raf! It’s 9 am, that’s still like night.”

Roger and Rafa meet each other’s eyes.

For a moment, Roger swears that Rafa shivered. If he’d noticed, he hasn’t said anything.

________

Myla comes over in the afternoon.

Charlene called her, probably worried that Roger’s sick which isn’t an unfair assumption. Still, Roger’s happy to see his girl, and he hugs her tight.

“Well?” Myla whispers, peeking over Roger’s shoulder, “is he a nightmare, dad? Charlene has such shit taste. Is this one a gold digger?”

“No,” Roger croaks, “this one’s the one.”

Myla raises her eyebrows.

Predictably, Myla loves Rafa. Roger’s pretty sure everyone does.

After they bond over antique cars and the newest season of _Love Island_ , Myla reaches over and clutches Charlene’s arm.

“Marry this one, sister. Or I’ll steal him from you.”

Roger overhears this as he plates up dessert. It should make him happy but it just makes his heart ache.

_______

  
Rafa wakes up gasping.

He sits bolt upright, blankets pooling around his hips, and he tries to breathe.

The dream, however, still pricks at his skin. Pelts against his face like a torrential downpour.

_“It’s not gonna be glamorous, baby,” Andy drawls, their fingers twined, the moon above them._

_“Won’t it?” Rafa grins, “travelling the world together side by side? It sounds pretty great, Andy.”_

_“I’d love to, baby, but...”_

_Rafa props up onto his elbow and looks over at his partner. “I’m not letting you go alone.”_

_“You’re twenty-one–”_

_“I’m your partner.” Rafa reaches over, steals a kiss. “You’re it for me, Andy. Where you go, I’m going.”_

He hasn’t thought of Andy in–

It’s a mistake; being here, Rafa thinks, as he slips out of bed. He brushes the tears from his eyes with his knuckles, and doesn’t look at the sleeping figure of Charlene as he edges out of the bedroom.

He’s remembering things he doesn’t want to remember. He’s remembering Andy. He’s remembering _before_. He’s remembering his naivety. He’s remembering the bolt of lightning that hit him hard when he was crashed in the ravines and covered in snow– remembers the moment that everything in his body burnt like fire and then he just stopped.

Stopped aging. Stopped living.

Andy was gone in an accident.

Rafa was immortal and with nothing to live for.

Then came the 50s and the 60s and with it, a brief stint with Xisca Perello, a kind woman he met in Mallorca.

Then the 70s and the 80s and then–

In 2004–

________

_“Roger.” Rafa sighs, cramming his wet shirts on his kit bag, “I told you, that was really more of a one night kind of thing.”_

_“Right, see, normally,” Roger hums, talking to him while he slams his locker shut, “I’m all about that. Seriously, commitment is a hassle especially when you’re travelling around.”_

_He snorts a little at that, he zips up his bag to arch his left eyebrow through the locker room aisle. “Really?”_

_“I’m serious!” Roger laughs, “everyone’s always trying to pin me down but there’s something...Raf, we had fun, didn’t we?”_

_Rafa chews on the inside of his mouth, before hoisting his tennis bag on his shoulder ._

_Before he can reach for his kit bag, however, it’s jerked clumsily through the other side of the bench._

_He sighs. “Roger–”_

_“One date.”_

_“Roger–”_

_“You know I’m_ the _Roger Federer? World number one? Ring any bells?”_

_At that, Rafa smiles sweetly. “I’m worth more than your grand slam titles can ever imagine.”_

_Roger blinks in surprise, before grinning hugely and following Rafa as he heads for the receptionist. “You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, you know that?”_

_The receptionist gasps; scandalised._

_Rafa can’t help but laugh._

_“I’m serious– in your fucking 50s jacket and bulging left bicep and you’re– don’t make me beg.”_

_Roger Federer is probably the most handsome guy Rafa’s ever seen. Even now, with his large shirt and his charm and his unkempt hair. He has dark eyes and a broad chest and lips that curve into a smile that does something to Rafa’s heart._

_“Roger, I’m really sorry, but I just don’t date.”_

_“Good lord.” The receptionist mutters, “it’s experimentation gone mad.”_

_Rafa frowns at her._

_“Hey, you,” Roger hums at her, shoving stacks of paper rustling onto the floor, “do you mind? I’m trying to have a private conversation.”_

_“Mierda.” Rafa whispers, delighted, jaw dropped, “well, I…”_

_“One date. Then you never have to see me again, I swear.”_

_He’s handsome, and sweet and a little lost. The receptionist is staring at all the papers on the floor; aghast._

_Rafa says yes._

___

Some things don’t change.

The moon looks just the same. The way it did that night in 1940 with Andy Murray.

The way it did when Rafa went on his first boat. When he changed his name. The night he tried his first cigar. It looks the same in Paris and it looks the same in Rome.

It looks the same here, sitting on the gorgeous lavender fringe of Roger Federer’s garden.

It’s a huge, silver pebble in the sky.

Rafa breathes in the night.

Roger Federer.

_Roger Federer._

It’s been twenty-nine years and the moon hasn’t changed and Rafa hasn’t changed but–

Roger has kids, _twins_. Charlene and Myla. Roger’s grown up. He was married– there are photos on the walls with a blonde woman with a thin, satisfied smile.

Roger’s grown up.

Rafa looks away from the moon and his tongue feels too big and he lets himself cry.

 _His_ Roger had been on the precipice. Newly minted grand slam champion in the distance, a new convertible in front of him. He’d been a boy and now…

Rafa and the moon: distant.

Roger Federer? He’s grown up.

Rafa feels like Peter Pan sees Wendy again after all that time. There’s an adult in her place– with the same eyes and the same smile.

_“You lied to me, Wendy.” Peter had said in the story, face screwed up, eyes betrayed. “You promised you wouldn’t change.”_

_“Oh, but I haven’t, Peter, don’t you see?” She replies, “I’m still me. Look, Tink.”_

“Raf?” Comes a voice, and Rafa wipes his face hurriedly, but it’s too late.

Roger’s standing there in his pyjamas, a robe on, a small glass of scotch in hand. He stands in the wet grass and stares. “I thought that was you– are you okay?”

Rafa nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Oh, right. He’s just in his pyjamas. The bench he’s sitting on is wet and the wood has absorbed all the cold of the night. Rafa’s freezing. There’s winter hanging in the air and he feels like the wind is passing right through him. “A little,” he croaks, “I’m just…”

“Couldn’t sleep again?” Roger nods, creeping closer. “Same.”

Here’s Roger Federer, all grown up. He’s just as handsome. Devastatingly handsome, maybe even more so now. With the silvers on the edges of his hair, the cocky wisdom in his gait.

He comes and sits beside Rafa and they both look up at the moon.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Roger offers, “I–I mean, if you need someone to talk to. Judgement free.”

Rafa can’t make out with Charlene anymore. Not now that he knows. Charlene’s touch makes him shiver– makes him queasy. It’s so much like– but quite enough like–

“Raf, you’re killing me. Please, let me get you a coat or something, it’s the dad inside me. You look like you’re freezing.”

The _dad_ inside him. Roger is a dad. “I....”

“I’ll make us some hot chocolate. I’ve got _From Here to Eternity_ on the DVR.”

Rafa lets out a wet laugh. “I saw that when it first–” he stumbles, looks away from the moon, “when it was re–released.” He gets to his feet, nodding. “Hot chocolate sounds nice.”

Roger’s looking at him– too clever, too brilliant.

Rafa tries so hard not to feel betrayed. Roger grew up. Had a life. Lived. Without him. Which is what he wanted, obviously, but–

“With almond milk and marshmallows, right?” Roger says, getting up, and Rafa nods.

“Yes, please.”

They don’t watch _From Here to Eternity_ , they just drink their hot chocolate in silence, looking at one another over the kitchen island. It feels like a mini–world.

It’s only later, when Rafa’s back in bed, that he realises that he never mentioned his preference for almond milk and marshmallows.

He can’t see the moon from Charlene’s bedroom window, but he knows that it’s there.

______

“I really like him,” Myla says brightly, stealing Roger’s hash browns and looking far too perky for so early in the morning, “but he’s weird sometimes, right?”

Roger nods at the waitress and orders more bacon. Myla’s too skinny. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I mean I told him if he likes cheese and he said ‘no’. Who doesn’t even like cheese?”

Roger stiffens but gives Myla a half–smile. “Not everyone has the same taste as you,”

“Mm,” she beams when the bacon is set down and Roger smooths down his nerves into his coffee mug. “Still, and you know what Charlene said?”

“What did Charlene say?”

“He said that he and Rafa haven’t done it ever since they’ve been together.”

“Myla, honey,” Roger sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “please. I’m eating.”

She laughs and chugs some orange juice.

That’s totally normal, though, Roger thinks as he drives them both back home. A couple having sex in a parents house, it can be awkward. Rafa’s probably just uncomfortable.

The thought of Charlene and Rafa having sex makes Roger feel weird.

And not the uncomfortable, _that’s my child_ kind of way, but in a way that’s starting to get harder and harder to not call jealousy.

That makes sense, though. He was in love with Rafa’s father and the likeness is– obscene, quite frankly.

Residual feelings, yadda yadda, so on and so forth.

If Mirka were here, she’d tell him to haul his ass to a therapist.

When they pull up to the house, Charlene and Rafa are outside.

They’re arguing.

“Oh shit,” Myla breathes.

Roger kills the engine, and they both step out into the bright morning.

“If you would just talk to me!” Charlene yells, face red and splotchy, hair still damp from a shower, “but you’re so goddamn secretive, Rafa!” It takes a lot to get Charlene angry. She’s remarkably relaxed.

“I’m not allowed secrets?” Rafa demands, anger much more controlled. More poised. Roger can only stare.

“Sure, but not when they’re lies.”

“I’ve never lied to you–”

“Bullshit.” Charlene sneers, and Rafa jerks like he was slapped and he stands there shocked and Charlene looks suddenly ashamed.

“Hey,” Myla murmurs, stepping between them. She looks over at Roger, but he can only stand there.

This is all too much.

He’s seen this before.

“Hey come on, guys,” she continues, “I don’t know what’s going on, but can’t we go inside and talk?”

“Let me go, Charlene.” Rafa says with his voice quivering, eyes glassy with unshed tears, “I want to go back.”

“How are you going back then?” Charlene replies, stubborn. “You plan to walk? You have to stay. We have to talk this out.”

Rafa lifts his nose, juts his chin. “I don’t care. I’ll walk back to town.”

“You’d rather leave?” Charlene cries, waving her arms, “rather than having an honest conversation with me? Jesus, Raf, you keep me at arms length all the time. And now– look where we are! We’re at my family’s home, with my dad and my sister and– and I don’t know anything about you. Where you’re from or where you went to school or–or– you won’t let us take _any_ pictures together and–”

Roger can see Rafa shaking. Can see his tears silently spilling through his eyes.

He’s seen this before.

“Charlene,” he says, using his dad–voice, the one he hasn’t had to use in a long time. “Enough. Rafa,” he tosses him his keys, “here. Please do me a favour and come back. This car’s my third baby.”

Rafa catches the keys and stares at him.

“Roger.” He sniffles, before getting in the car.

Nobody says anything as it crunches over the gravel and disappears around the corner.

Until:

“Well,” Myla sighs, hands on hips, looking so much like Mirka that Roger almost can’t believe it. “What the fuck was that about?”

_____

_“Hey, come on,” Roger grins, winding up the polaroid. “It’s cute. We can have a whole scrapbook. Please?”_

_“No, Roger, seriously,” Rafa smiles, but his voice is firm, “I don’t want any photos, I don’t like it.” He’s perched on the hood of Roger’s car, his PSP perched on his lap._

_“You also said you didn’t like honey in your porridge but don’t think I don’t see you adding it every morning.” He chirps, slinging his arm over Rafa and turning the camera onto them both. He snaps a shot before Rafa shoves him: hard. “Hey!”_

_“I told you I didn’t want you to do that!”_

_“Jesus, Raf, calm down–”_

_“You don’t listen to me!” Rafa chokes, breath tight, “You never listen to what I want.”_

_Roger rubs at his arm, eyebrows furrowing together. “What are you talking about? Yes, I do, I listen to everything you say. I buy all your bullshit, too.”_

_Dark eyes bore into him; hard. “What?”_

_Roger takes a breath before he sighs. “Your bullshit, Raf, I buy all your bullshit. You never talk about your parents, you lie all the time, I take it and I don’t complain–”_

_“You have no idea what you’re talking about–”_

_“I’m guessing it’s like a witness protection thing? Or you did some shady shit in the past and got a new identity– or you’re an immigrant or whatever, I don’t care. I love you.” He reaches out, takes Rafa’s hand. “So, I won’t question all your bullshit. I do listen to you.”_

_Rafa’s white like parchment. He pulls out of Roger’s grip. “I have to go.” He whispers coldly._

_Roger snorts, leans back on the car. “I’d ask where, but you’ll lie.”_

_He doesn’t see Rafa for over a week after that fight._

_He never asks about it again._

_______

There’s a box in the attic that hasn’t been opened in years.

It’s open now, sitting around Roger, his life in pieces and memorabilia, all lain neat around him. Captured perfectly. His first tennis racquet, his first tennis shoes, his marriage certificate, Myla’s birth certificate, Charlene’s birth certificate, Mirka’s death certificate.

There are old pictures and bank accounts. There are a few postcards from friends long forgotten. Embarrassing haircuts and radical fashion choices tucked away.

Roger finds what he wants in a shoe box in the box.

There’s a birthday card in there.

_Happy birthday to the most handsome boyfriend in the world – Lots and lots and lots of love, your boyfriend (Rafa, since I know you have to sooooo many, asshole)_

There are photos too.

Well, there are two.

One of the two of them, it’s poor quality, just before a fight, and Rafa is blocking his face from the camera as best as he can with a PSP in his lap.

Those curls are unmissable, though.

The other photo is one Roger had taken before that.

It’s a profile shot, Rafa driving his rented chevy, lips parted as he sang along to whatever was on the radio.

Roger brushes his thumb over it.

“Holy shit,” Charlene whispers, tugging the photo from his grip. “It’s Rafa.”

“It’s his dad.” Myla persists, the way she has been for the past half hour.

“No.” Charlene chokes, “no, it’s not. It’s Rafa. Dad, you were telling the truth–”

“It can’t be Rafa–”

“Look.” Charlene points to the photo, points to a small silver line on Rafa’s left hand. “He has that scar. I’ve seen it. I’ve…”

Myla turns to Roger, eyes huge. “But…”

“I knew it the second I saw him.” He whispers, “it’s my Rafa.”

Charlene turns to him sharply, but Roger doesn’t say anything. He just reaches into the shoebox and pulls out the ring.

His children look at it.

“Dad.” Charlene hiccups, and Myla trembles as she reaches for it. The gold glints in the dim sunlight that filters into the dusty attic.

“We wouldn’t have been allowed to get married back then, anyway,” Roger whispers, trying to smile, “but I figured we would, even if it was just for us.”

Charlene gets up and goes to the window. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No.” Roger whispers, pushing the box away. “I don’t think he will.”

_______

_“Rafa,” a man from his back drawls, and Rafa pulls away from his locker guiltily, and looks back._

_“Novak, hi.” he greets politely, ducking his head._

_Rafa’s much older inside but there’s something about Novak that scares him a little. That intimidates him. That makes him feel like he is actually only eighteen. “You’re still here?”_

_Rafa stiffens a little. It was late and no one should be here anyway. “I was just– a little restless, needed to hit some balls, no?”_

_“Of course, I understand.”_

_Rafa watches as Novak walks towards one of the benches and plops down. Novak’s dressed casually, in a pastel blue shirt and black sneakers. Rafa’s about to change shirts. Everyone’s gone._

_Rafa wishes he’d stayed in bed with Roger instead._

_“Can I share something with you, Rafa?” Novak asks as he lifts his feet and rests it on top of the bench before crossing it._

_“Of course, sure.” Rafa doesn’t like talking to him. He gives off weird vibes. It reminds him of that time in history where people are hellbent on looking for aliens._

_“You know things available to us through the Internet, yeah? I think we can all agree. But there’s something more. You know there’s something that piqued my interest about a man who crashed into the ravines during a snowstorm, and well, the results are fruitless. Some myths are myths, but when God closes a door…” he chuckles, and it’s a cruel sound. “I do know a lot of things, Mr. Parera.”_

_Rafa stills, and then forcibly relaxes._

_“It’s funny, isn’t it, disappearing? Reappearing? I suppose it was easier, in the past, when there weren’t as many records. As many pictures.”_

_His heart is pounding. He hasn’t felt like this since that scare in the 60s. When he’d had to run, when furious shouts of officers yelling commie at him in the dark got too close, when they had wanted to test him, harvest him._

_Novak is suddenly right in front of him, looking down at him– admiration and wonder in his eyes._

_“All myths are rooted in some truth. Enhanced cells, immortality, Rafa. Have you ever heard of such a thing?” He whispers._

_Rafa wants to yell for Roger. For help._

_“I don’t–” he stammers, “–I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Novak backs off, still smiling. “Neither do I. Not yet. But I will.” He turns on his heel, heads for the door. “Dress pretty tomorrow, Rafito. I heard Roger’s planning a surprise wedding proposal.”_

When Roger wakes up in the morning, Rafa’s gone.

______

Rafa doesn’t come back.

Roger had known he wouldn’t. He understands now. It makes sense now. Whatever Rafa is, he doesn’t– he doesn’t age.

Roger’s exhausted his connections and asked for favors, asking for their silence about the matter. He searched through databases and found dozens of different aliases; he found a photo of a tall, cocky looking boy from 1940 with another man. He’d zoomed in and stared and sure enough, even in the black and white, dark eyes and curls had stared back at him.

There’s a photo of a Miguel Angel in 1970, a little blurry, a paparazzi shot, coming out of a restaurant with a Xisca Perello. He’s clearly drunk, and his face is half hidden, but Roger knows.

There’s a record of a Sebastian Lopez graduating from Madrid in 1982. A Rafael Verdasco buying stocks and setting up a bank account.

Roger goes through it all, gathers and sorts as much of it as he can, tries to piece together the life of something he doesn’t understand.

Rafa Nadal doesn’t age. He goes back to at least the 30s. Roger’s yet to find a birth certificate.

The secrets, the lack of parents, the lack of past, it makes sense.

“Hey, look,” Myla calls from where she’s hunched over her laptop. Roger looks over, and she projects what she’s found into thin blue light in the air. “That’s him, right?”

_Person of Interest: Rafa Nadal / Sebastian Lopez / Rafael Verdasco_

It’s an FBI casefile. Rafa’s photo is there. There’s a description of enhanced cells. There’s a note of a failed attempt to bring him in.

“They were onto him?” Roger breathes, checking the date. _1961_.

“Only for a few years.” Myla whispers, still scrolling. “Looks like after the red scare the new FBI director shut the case down. They declared it nonsense. Thought people were being overly imaginative over what the Russians could actually do.”

Roger feels a little relieved.

“But dad, the file was leaked all over the internet in 2005–”

“Don’t say it.” Roger whispers, closing his eyes.

Fuck. He already knows.

______

Roger is fifty years old.

He doesn’t feel it. Well, sometimes he feels it. Sometimes he aches in cold weather or he’ll wince at modern music and say something like _turn that ruckus down_. The kids never let him hear the end of that.

But most of the time, he feels young. He’s one of the best athletes of the century, he’s a billionaire, he attends fashion weeks, he does a lot of skiing, he looks pretty damn good.

It’s been two months since Rafa. It hits him hard, it makes him stumble, but there’s a sense of closure that wasn’t there before. No longer is there the hanging burden of uncertainty. He knows now. He understands. Rafa loved him and had to leave. It wasn’t about Roger, it was about the mystery that is his life.

Roger hates life a little more than he did before, but the uncertainty is gone, and it has taken with it the sense of insecurity that has been rooted deep within him for such a long time he’d almost forgotten what it was like to live without it. It feels like something dark and sad has slowly, and for the first time in a long while, loosened its grip on his heart.

Charlene is still a little lost, and Myla has been determined in tracking Rafa down.

“Sweetheart,” Roger sighs, straightening his bowtie and admiring just how dapper he looks in the mirror, “I told you, you won’t find him. He’s been doing this for a very long time.”

She looks at him and she’s beautiful, his little girl, in a slinky gold dress, her hair down to her hips. “But you’re soulmates.”

“Honey–”

“Come on,” Charlene calls, her own dress a little dusted with snow, “we’re not going to be late to our own New Year’s Eve party. Not again.”

Roger chuckles, holding Myla’s hand and guiding her out. “What? It’s tradition.”

It is a tradition. Roger rents out the top floor of the town’s nicest hotel, invites everyone for a free bar and a spectacular place to watch spectacular fireworks. It’s made him rather popular.

It’s just as gorgeous this year as it is every year. The floor to ceiling windows look out over the town at night, and the city beyond it is just whitening with frost. There are lights and the distant cheering of celebration.

Roger heads over to the bar, where Charlene is sipping at a tall glass of orange juice.

“This is ridiculous.” Charlene grumbles, “I’m practically an adult.”

Roger pats her on the back. “You can have one glass of champagne at midnight. Because I love you.” He presses a kiss onto the back of Charlene’s head.

“And him.” Charlene whispers, almost bitterly. So quiet that Roger could try and pretend he hasn’t heard it. Could try and pretend that things between the two of them haven’t been tense for the past two months. It’s there, though, just beneath the surface, an anger and hurt from his daughter.

Roger pauses. Closes his eyes. Gathers his breath.

Charlene goes on: “You love _my_ boyfriend, Rafa was–”

“Have you had something already?” Roger asks warningly, he can smell it on Charlene’s breath.

“You should’ve seen the way he looked at you over dinner.” Charlene hiccups, “I didn’t understand–”

Roger swallows hard, and signals the bartender for some water. “I would never do anything to hurt you.” He whispers, brutal and true, “you are my kid, Charles. You know that I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“I loved him.”

Roger doesn’t think that’s true. Rafa and Charlene had only known each other a matter of weeks, but Charlene’s always been so head–first diving into everything. The first guy he ever brought home and it turns out her dad–

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” He murmurs, smoothing Charlene’s hair, because he doesn’t know what else he can say.

_____

There’s a man in the lobby.

Or Charlene died on the elevator ride down. Which she might have done, vodka and orange juice aren’t mixing the intoxicating way in her stomach that she thought they might.

There’s a man in the lobby, looking a little lost.

He has hair of perfect chocolate curls and cuts a sharp, gorgeous figure. He’s in perfectly tailored black trousers, shoes polished and shining under the lobby’s warm light, and a satin shirt so fine an indigo it almost looks like liquid silk. The orange strap of his watch around his wrist stands out from the blacks of his attire.

“Rafa,” Charlene breathes, and Rafa turns, the top buttons of his shirt all undone and tempting and showing that lovely golden skin and those sharp collarbones and the hint of a scar from a photo taken twenty-nine years ago.

____

_“I’ll have one medium iced mocha with whipped cream and–” Charlene cuts off, stuttering when her eyes land on the boy behind the counter._

_The barista smiles, ducking his head a little and hiding his face beneath the navy blue cap that’s part of his uniform._

_Charlene grins and checks her pullover for ketchup stains. “Hi,” she beams, taking in the other person’s frame. The name tag says – “Rafa. Can I get a medium iced mocha with whipped cream? And maybe your number?”_

_One of the girls in the line behind her mumbles oh god, but Charlene figures she’s just jealous._

_Rafa peeks up at her, punching her order into the till. “One medium iced mocha with whipped cream coming up.” He says politely, but there’s still a little blush on his cheeks so Charlene hums thoughtfully. When she hands over the money, there’s a fifty dollar bill there._

_“As a tip.” She offers winningly, when Rafa gives him a look._

_The boy laughs. “Is that what I’m worth?”_

_“Baby, you are priceless.”_

_Rafa laughs heartily again. It’s glorious. Charlene can’t take her eyes off him. Jesus, he’s beautiful. “Do you go here?” She asks, nudging his head towards one of the college buildings._

_The barista shuffles over to fiddle with the machine for another order and Charlene follows. The barista stops and looks away, thinking. “No, I’m just working here.”_

_“That’s cool too,” Charlene hurries to offer._

_He wonders what Rafa’s hair is like under that cap. His eyes suggest brown–_

_“Name?” Rafa asks, and Charlene grins._

_“041 87 421 8905.”_

_She gets a look._

_“I know, right? What were my parents thinking?”_

_Rafa looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile._

_Charlene’s thrilled. She reaches for a napkin and pulls a pen out of his pocket. It’s leaking a little, but she scribbles down his number and slides it over, black stained on her fingers. “If you ever wanna...get coffee?”_

_After a long moment of deliberation, Rafa’s eyes flickering over her face, the barista reaches over and gingerly takes the napkin. “What’s your name?” He asks eventually._

_Charlene beams. “Guess.”_

_______

“Oh, _Charles._ ” Rafa gasps, rushing over to her.

Charlene wants to be mad. She wants to be angry. The last time she’d seen Rafa they’d been fighting, she’d been so hurt. But Rafa’s there now, his hands cold from the snow outside, and cradling Charlene’s face, looking at her with concern.

Charles. Only her dad calls him that. But she’s never minded Rafa doing it, either. He stands there, head bowed, and relishes in Rafa’s touch as those fingertips fret over his forehead, brush his bangs out of eyes. “Have you been drinking? Oh, Charlene! Let’s get you some coffee.” There’s a steady arm wrapping around his waist, guiding her.

“Coffee,” Charlene laughs, feeling carved out. “That’s where we met.”

Rafa doesn’t say anything to that, and Charlene’s being pushed into a plush seat in the corner of the hotel’s restaurant on the ground floor. It’s empty, everyone’s upstairs at her dad’s party, but somehow, Rafa procures a cup of coffee, just the way Charlene likes it.

She takes a long, warm sip, and then looks across the table.

Rafa is so breathtaking. Even now, his expression pinched tight, fingers tapping nervously.

“You haven’t come for me.” Charlene whispers; ragged.

Huge dark eyes darted to him in surprise. “Charlene,” Rafa frowns, “I did come back for you.”

“What? But–”

“I just left you, without any explanation, and...that was a really shitty thing to do. I’m so sorry. You have to know–” Rafa’s eyes burn with sincerity, “–it’s all me. I know people say that, but Charlene, I’m...you deserve someone so much better for you than me. There’s something wrong with me and–” Rafa’s lips wobble and he’s trembling all over, and Charlene realises with a cold sobering thought that–

Rafa doesn’t know they know.

Charlene watches; awed. For the first time since she’s met him, she can see the pain that radiates off of Rafa in waves. It’s something that’s always been there. A sense of being out of place, something just a little bit wrong.

For the first time, Charlene thinks about how awful life must be for Rafa.

Rafa’s always struck him as so wise, so full of guidance, but he’s just lost.

“Raf,” she breathes, inhaling, “we know.”

Rafa scrunches his nose up a little, cheeks glistening with tears. “Know what?”

“Dad– he– he figured it out.”

A stillness overcomes Rafa, then. He stops trembling. “I–”

“Don’t say you have to go.” Charlene whispers in a rush. Everything’s clear to her now. This sadness and this sense of being lost, she’s seen it before– she saw it when her dad dropped his cup of coffee, when he showed them the wedding ring he bought twenty-nine years ago. “Rafa, please, you have to go upstairs. You have to talk to my dad–”

Rafa flinches hard. He composes himself, gets to his feet. “I have to go now, Charlene–”

“You just apologised to me. For leaving.” Charlene chokes, her own eyes wet, as she gets to her feet and blocks Rafa’s way. “Doesn’t my dad deserve that? Fuck, Raf, he loved you so much–”

Rafa’s shaking his head, like he can push the words away, like they cut him too deep to be heard.

“He’s upstairs right now, it’s New Year’s Eve, just– he’s forgiven you. He’s not mad, I swear,” Charlene whispers, words a blur of persuasion, “none of us are mad. We just– we get it, we get it, and–and _please_ , please get in that elevator. Go upstairs, I…” she shakes her head, she feels unsteady on her feet. “When I first saw you in that lobby I thought it was gonna be a big romantic moment, and you know– there is gonna be, but– it’s not gonna be with me. Please.”

Rafa walks past her and Charlene can’t bear to watch whether he goes to the elevators or the doors.

______

The countdown to New Year brings apprehensive excitement every single year. Every single year, even though Roger knows how it goes. He counts down, he cheers, he sips champagne. Myla will rush up to kiss his cheek, and then he’ll watch the fireworks and maybe treat himself to a slice of cake.

But still, when everyone starts cheering _ten, nine, eight_ he can’t help the little rush that shoots through him. He looks in vain for Charlene, but can’t see her.

Everyone’s on _five,_ Myla’s already kissing a well–dressed man and Roger rolls his eyes fondly, when someone taps him on the shoulder.

It’s so fucking ludicrous to say that time stops when you see that person. _The_ person. Time doesn’t stop or slow, and the countdown continues, but Roger feels a peace in his soul that permeates into every inch of him– that makes him take in every minute detail in a fraction of the time it normally takes him, so it seems like time has slowed.

But time hasn’t slowed. The countdown goes on.

Rafa’s there.

He’s crying, he’s smiling, and then he’s pushing onto his tiptoes, and just as the fireworks go off–

Roger gets kissed.

It’s like going back in time. He’s twenty-one years old again, cramped in the back of his car with Rafa in his lap.

Rafa’s arched to fit himself in Roger’s frame, chest pressed flush to Roger’s, and just like he did twenty-nine years ago, dancing the same beautiful dance, his favourite dance, Roger bows his head and cradles Rafa’s neck and eases them into something no less desperate, but a little more comfortable.

Rafa tastes of tears and gratitude and love.

Roger can’t believe he’s holding him, that he’s here, that it’s all real.

When they pull away, they’re gasping for air, but Rafa stays close, burying his way into Roger’s neck just like– just like–

“You _know_ ,” Rafa hiccups, as everyone cheers and fireworks bang. “You know I’m all wrong, but– but– I love you.”

Roger holds him so tight he knows he’s hurting him, but he can’t let go. Can’t reel it in. “You’re the most right thing I’ve ever known.” He confesses into Rafa’s hair, a promise and a vow.

When he looks up, Myla is staring at them, jaw dropped– tears in her eyes.

_______

The scruff of Roger’s beard dragging against his neck is not the only thing that’s different.

Roger’s hands are firmer, his touch more knowing, more confident. Not as clumsy or unsure. Rafa’s writhing in his lap, hips rocking without his consent, as Roger bites up the column of his throat.

Roger’s hair is just as thick in between Rafa’s fingers. He’s broader, Rafa’s legs spread wider over his thighs, but he smells just the same. He touches all the same places and that touch makes Rafa hot all over.

“You’re like a dream,” Roger whispers, prayer–quiet, into the hollow of Rafa’s throat.

Rafa clutches him. “All this time–”

“You’re here now.” Roger shushes, gentling, he kisses Rafa’s lips, the corners of his mouth, his nose, his eyebrows, until Rafa pulls away.

Rafa looks down at him, and traces his hands over all those handsome features. “You are loved. I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise. You are enough.”

Tears slips down Roger’s face and it’s like he doesn’t realise they’re there. “I’m enough?”

 _“More than.”_ Rafa promises.

______

They don’t leave the bedroom for two days.

Roger knows that Myla’s probably making fake–vomiting faces downstairs, but she’s only half right.

Being with Rafa again is– it’s something he’s wanted for so long and now that he has it, nothing else seems to matter. All the wrongs pale into nothing. He feels like he can handle anything in the world. Anything life could throw at him.

He lies in bed as Rafa tells him the story of their missing years. Of the turn of the century, of moving to Scotland and working as a photographer, or coming back to Mallorca and moving from country to country, soaking in every inch of every culture he could get his hands on.

He talks about it almost like he’s ashamed, and Roger lies beside him, tracing the planes of Rafa’s chest, and doesn’t let him feel guilty.

But then it’s Roger’s turn, and guilt bubbles up inside him. The look on Rafa’s face is one he can’t school. When Roger talks of his wedding to Mirka, of the joy when Myla and Charlene were born, of his tennis career, the money, Charlene, seeing graduations and getting his first grey hair–

“I’m sorry,” Roger murmurs, drawing Rafa into his embrace as he cries.

“Don’t be,” Rafa sniffles, “I’m so happy for you. I’m just so jealous. I’ll never have that– and– and one day you’ll be gone and you’re all I want.”

When Rafa talks about the 30s, Roger expects for those memories to be faded and muted, but Rafa remembers them with startling, heart–breaking clarity.

Andrew Barron Murray, Roger thinks of the photo he and Myla found. He reaches for his laptop as Rafa talks.

“He wanted to become a professional tennis player, no? Andy kept trying to get me sent home on purpose–”

“Is he in this photo?” He blurts, a little graceless, pulling it up.

Rafa stares, stricken by the sight of it, and he reaches out to touch the screen.

There’s Rafa, fringe covering his right eye, painted in black and white and grinning– exhausted. Roger watches as Rafa touches another man. He’s tall and Roger faced, a few people away, but strappingly handsome.

“It’s Andy,” Rafa whispers, but it seems like he has no tears left to cry. Instead he smiles, and cradles the laptop. “I–he–...”

It’s almost unfathomable. “Did anyone know?”

Rafa shakes his head. “I think his mom guessed, but she was a good person. Just boys, we all were. Even Andy. I think they knew but they didn’t care one bit.”

Roger shuts his eyes and rests his head on Rafa’s bare shoulder. “I can’t imagine you, Rafa.”

They don’t leave the room. Roger just holds him. Feels their skin press together. He keeps bracing, waiting for Rafa to look at him and think he’s old, but he comes apart at Roger’s touches like he’s been waiting for them, craving them all this time.

Roger knows how it feels.

He’s twenty-one years old again when Rafa settles between his legs and takes his cock into his mouth. He grunts, hands fisting into those impossible curls, and he can feel Rafa’s smile.

____

_“Jesus, Raf,” Roger pants, even as he bucks his hips a little, “we’re due back in like three minutes–”_

_Rafa pulls off, framed by the thick wool of the coat room, lips sinfully shiny. He arches an eyebrow. “You don’t think I can get you there in 3 minutes?”_

_Roger laughs breathlessly, “you’re gonna try–”_

_Rafa takes him all the way and Roger thumps his head back against the wall so hard he’s seeing stars._

______

The winter sun breaks in through the window and Roger blinks slowly, shaking off the lingering slumber. He’s in bed, and Rafa is draped over him, snuffling in his sleep and Roger feels so much younger and lighter than he has in years.

Softly, he lays his hands over Rafa’s back, and just rests them there.

It took twenty-nine years but his soulmate is here. Is with him.

And it’s all thanks to Charlene.

______

“After all these years,” Roger chokes out, framed by vines and lavender. “After all this time…” the ring he’s had for so long is finally on the person it was always meant for.

From the pews, Myla lets out a little sob.

From behind him, Roger can hear Charlene sniffle.

Before the priest even says “you may kiss–” Rafa’s springing onto Roger and kissing him like he can’t bear to wait another second.

Roger can taste his smile, and he holds him tight and feels the tickle of petals as they cascade down onto them both.

There are going to be things to work out, science and forged identities and searching for a way to see what exactly happened to Rafa.

But all of that is on the backburner.

Roger finally has the love of his life in his arms, a ring on his finger, and all the time he’s waited suddenly feels like no time at all.

He finally has his own slice of forever.

**_epilogue_ **

Roger pulls Rafa into the elevator after hosting their first New Year’s Eve party together. They've laughed, drank too much champagne, and kissed when the clock striked twelve. Rafa notices something strange in the elevator mirror, though: his first grey hair. _I’m aging,_ Rafa thinks. Rafa smiles so brightly that Roger asks if he’s alright.

Rafa touches Roger’s cheeks. “Yes, of course. Everything's… perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading this fic!
> 
> i'd like to thank kelvin for telling me to watch age of adaline while i was crying over how to stop time. they're also responsible for putting the idea of writing a fedal au after we were both ugly sobbing over this movie. i really don't know what to do without you screaming at my dms, kelvs.
> 
> the recent atp calendar is also whack! just cancel the entire 2020 tour and give rafa's knees a rest!!
> 
> anyway, let me know what you think! keep safe everyone :")


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